


Theft

by KingOfRats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, all i want is just happy fluff, i have come down with the jonsa, its terminal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfRats/pseuds/KingOfRats
Summary: It is a well known tradition that, among the Free Folk, you steal your wife.





	Theft

"I'm stealing you."

Sansa's not quite sure when the idea occurred to her. She suspects it might have been between the third and fifth glass of wine, when Tormund started telling his dirtier stories, but it's all a little fuzzy to her. Regardless, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

It still did, given that Jon is standing in front of her, shirtless. His nightshirt lies on the bed, waiting to be put on, but for now Jon's chest is bare, revealing the sort of well defined muscle that a man builds when he spends years of his life with a blade in hand. The picture is marred only by the gnarled bed of scar tissue around his heart.

"What?" Jon rasps. His voice is low and rough and tinged with something other than sleep. "Sansa, are you drunk?"

He steps towards her, but she's not really paying attention, her eyes have been drawn towards his lips, and she is focused firmly upon how they look in the low light and the short glimpses of pink that peaks through when he speaks. Her hand finds its way to the waist of his pants and starts fiddling with them almost without her knowledge. He grabs it, hand tightening around her own to stop her. A thrill runs down her spine at the rough feel of his callused fingers on her own.

It's a terribly distracting feeling, and for all that it makes Sansa want to giggle and smile like a young girl, there's no way she'll make it out of the castle with him in tow if she lets him stop her here. She goes to pull her hand out of his grasp, or perhaps to try and drag him along behind her, she's not sure. All she manages to do is lose her balance. She stumbles, the wine making her legs all too unsteady for her tastes, and Jon's other hand finds its way to her hip as he tries to steady her.

Sansa takes the opportunity to lean into him. Her free hand snakes its way up his back and she nuzzles into his neck. The soured milk that the Free Folk brew lingers on his breath, heavy and unpleasant, but underneath it she can smell him, all pine and sweat and *home*.

"'M not," she mumbles into his skin, already halfway asleep. She clings to him as he picks her up and lets him settle her into his bed before she remembers her plan. She squirms and wiggles and tries to escape but Jon only pulls her even closer and she barely finds the energy to protest his warm embrace. "Jon," she whines.

He chuckles softly and presses a kiss onto her forehead as she drifts off. "Sweetheart, you already stole me a long time a go."

In the morning, when she wakes up in his arms with a headache and a blush, she blames Tormund.


End file.
